


Music's Ethereal Fire

by slushiepuff



Series: Heavenly Choirs [1]
Category: The New Pope (TV), The Young Pope (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gratuitous Hand-Holding, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slushiepuff/pseuds/slushiepuff
Summary: Music's ethereal fire was givenNot to dissolve our clay,But draw Promethean beams from Heaven,And purge the dross away.- Cardinal John Henry Newman(The Isles of the Sirens)In which Bernardo let's Mario in.
Relationships: Mario Assente/Bernardo Gutiérrez
Series: Heavenly Choirs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023465
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is for all of us who lamented the fact that Assente and Gutierrez never got their chance to be happy together.
> 
> A big thank you to the lovely and talented individuals of this fandom who inspired me to write this fic and an enormous thank you to my betas, the wonderful [Nael06](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nael06/profile) and [SaintMalone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintMalone/profile).

"I felt lonely all of a sudden."

Bernardo’s mouth is ever so slightly open, seemingly at a loss for words. The lack of immediate rejection and evident, if wary, interest allows Mario to relax somewhat and he laughs at the predicament he has placed them in.

The gentle quiet of their surroundings lends an acute tangibility to the tension between them as Bernardo's eyes drop once more to trace toned muscles and sharp collarbones. They are slower this time on their way back to his mouth, his cheekbones, his eyes.

The silence stretches as Bernardo continues to scrutinize Mario's face, searching for something. For all his general anxiety, he is very still as he watches on whereas Mario is unable to stop the flex of his fingers at his side and the adjustment of his hand on the door.

He is beginning to have doubts, mind scrambling for the words to excuse himself and salvage what must surely be the ruins of their fledgling friendship. As he struggles to speak, something shifts in Bernardo’s face. It’s a strange combination of determination and prudence. He clears his throat. “Alright.” Apparently reminded of how intently he had been staring at Mario, he averts his gaze woth a swallow and a light blush colours his cheeks as he struggles to say his next words. “But maybe you should put your shirt back on first.” 

The statement electrifies and confuses Mario in equal measures, but for all his insistence on candour, there's an underlying skittishness that he can feel in both of them. Not only that, the situation is perhaps a little too delicate to come out and directly ask Bernardo what he means to do instead. He isn't worried though, the attraction between them is unmistakable, and Bernardo's wandering gaze confirmed that for him. He is, however, curious to see what this usually cautious man has planned.

With another short exhale and wet of the lips he walks back to the partition, fully intent on picking up his shirt. He hesitates as his fingers reach it, tightening around the soft cotton without thought. He hadn't considered an alternative to what he had imagined - mutual pleasure, gentle touches because it could only ever be gentle with Bernardo, and some form of connection he desperately craves. He is suddenly significantly more nervous than he was knocking at Bernardo’s door.

He slips his arms into the sleeves before he can delve too deeply into it, buttoning the shirt as he makes his way back to the waiting doorway. In his acute awareness of the other man, it’s impossible to miss the way Bernardo’s eyes track the progress of his hands. He leaves the top two buttons undone and returns to their initial positions, modesty ever so slightly recovered alongside a new tightness in his chest to accompany his fidgeting fingers.

Despite the lively flicker of flames suffusing the room with heat, he is grateful for the extra bit of warmth against the cold dampness of the english night.

Bernardo swallows once more before moving aside, revealing a clear view of the portraits lining the walls and, more importantly, an unobstructed path into the room. It's hazy and soft and sharp in the places you wouldn't expect, like the reflection of light on Bernardo's cheek and the bite of his nails in his own palm.

They stand awkwardly.

Bernardo glances across the bed, gaze resting somewhere at middle distance, frowns and looks down clearly unsure of what to do with himself.

Mario clears his throat. “I don't mean to make you uncomfortable.” Although he makes no attempt to move, he continues, “I can leave.”

A part of him had fixated on the fact that he had been asked to get dressed. That part, naive and cynical, had managed to convince him that whatever he has been invited in for, it would involve armchairs by the fire and a purely intellectual discussion of some kind.

He isn’t allowed to dwell on the thought however, as Bernardo moves quickly to the bed, chasing away the dreamy atmosphere that has fallen over them. He sits down more heavily on the bed than Mario would have expected. “No, stay.” The decisive tone contrasts oddly with the near coy glance and quiet “please, Mario” that follows the initial utterance. 

Mario’s knees buckle at the sound of his name, although he is quick to catch himself, and his ideas of intellectual conversation quickly find themselves evicted in favour of the kind of intimacy he’s certain he lacks experience for. 

He couldn’t be more thankful that Bernardo’s glance had been so swift lest he see how weak Mario truly is, overcome by a gentle roll of a letter in a name rarely used. Bernardo, he thinks, is someone he would entrust his name with forevermore, made a precious pearl carefully nestled on his tongue. The sound of it continues to echo in his head, threatening to overwhelm him once more, until-

_My name on your lips is the closest I have ever received to a benediction from God._

Unbidden and blasphemous and truthful in a way that had been hidden from even himself, the thought strikes through his very core like a single sharp clang from the Torre del Mangia and its lingering ring, startling all else into silence. He's staring. He knows he is staring and yet he can't take his eyes of the man in front of him; this man who can't possibly know that he has thrown Mario’s entire world into disarray with a single word. He might have come looking for physical intimacy this evening but it couldn’t be more clear now that at some point in their acquaintance, possibly even friendship, he had come to crave Bernardo’s affection.

Mario’s hands are shaking imperceptibly, whereas Bernardo’s are strikingly steady as they reach over and smooth out the covers on the other side of the bed. With another glance and coincidental instance of eye contact, he feels the tidal pull of the invitation in compassionate eyes so powerfully he could dive after the hands to beg for their embrace.

He resists the plunge.

Instead he moves around to the other side of the bed and sits himself down gingerly, trying to keep the bed and its other occupant as undisturbed as possible. The telltale sounds of rustling and shifting of the mattress behind him causes him to turn just enough to glimpse Bernardo's feet being lifted onto the bed as he presumably settles against the headboard. He is absently aware that he is in much the same position he had been in while contemplating knocking on the door to this very room not five minutes ago. And now that he is here, he has no idea what to do with himself.

Theirs isn't an easy affection, filled with loving touches and quiet laughter. It's written in stolen glances and unspoken attraction. Not a word had been uttered until this very evening and even so they have hardly discussed their feelings. Distant in all the ways that painfully mattered.

A glancing touch to his wrist raises him from his reverie. He twists around to catch sight of Bernardo's face looking somewhat nervous and concerned and is immediately reminded that he isn't the only one feeling lonely and vulnerable this evening. With an attempt at a reassuring smile, he shifts back until his back makes contact with the headboard as well.


	2. Chapter 2

They sit side by side. The bed is small, not made to comfortably accommodate two people, but they remain at a distance from each other nonetheless. Mario’s side burns with the awareness of Bernardo, so close he need only lean over a little to make contact. It is an exercise in restraint not to simply give in to the temptation, especially when the silence between them is quickly growing unbearably awkward.

Slowly, very slowly, Mario stretches out a hand, palm up in offering. He waits a long while, almost convincing himself that Bernardo hadn't noticed or, his thoughts turn traitorous and frankly irrational given where he is seated, is blatantly ignoring him. He can’t bring himself to turn and look however; or even break the silence. Instead his eyes remain fixated on his own empty hand, facing up in supplication, and the studied stillness he enforces on the fingers to no avail. Every so often, one of them will twitch and Mario has to internalize each accompanying flinch at having his anxiety so blatantly presented.

He is preparing to withdraw his hand when he feels it.

The first touch is so gentle that it is barely noticeable. It tickles, Bernardo’s fingertips tracing the line between his palm and his wrist and grazing momentarily over his pulse. The fleeting brush is for the best as he feels his heartbeat quicken at the touch.

When Bernardo's hand settles, it's not in Mario's hand as he expects but next to it. They rest against each other with the smallest bit of overlap, little finger over thumb. The point of contact feels conspicuously warm, radiating through the rest of his hand and up his arm to fuel his racing heart.

The unrelenting urge to nervously flex his fingers as he had when he had knocked on the door manifests itself but he is quick to tamp it down, resulting instead in a more severe twitch of his fingers. However, he does give in to the same compulsion itching at his other hand laying on his stomach. This is the longest they have ever been in contact - the closest being perhaps a guiding hand at the elbow or a brush of the hands while walking - and Mario is more than happy to simply soak in the rare instance of skin to skin contact. 

It feels necessary to let Bernardo lead except he always seems cautious to act or perhaps doesn’t know where to begin. The little finger curls around Mario’s thumb and he takes that as permission to proceed, turning his wrist a little so he might wrap his hand around the rest of Bernardo’s fingers with a reassuring squeeze before rearranging their hands again.

He threads their fingers together, head tipping back to rest against the headboard and he sighs in relief and what could be pleasure at Bernardo’s answering grip. Morning rays of sunshine couldn’t compare to the gentle warmth that chases away the cold from his fingers. His eyes are closed but he knows the corners of his mouth have ticked up. He would sit through the night like this, if Bernardo would let him. Gently clasped hands are more than enough to satisfy him for a lifetime.

Despite his own contentment, he is somewhat more concerned about his companion. Acquiescence and even encouragement aside, there remains a reluctance in every movement made by Bernardo that has been present in all their interactions, the source of which remains a mystery to Mario. As though he is always holding his breath, forever anticipating something that never deigns to strike.

“Will you tell me?” His eyes snap open as the words come unbidden.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Bernardo turn to look at him questioningly. It’s the first time he has properly looked at Mario since the moment he stepped into the room. And although he had not planned on saying the words, he knows what his subconscious is begging him to ask. “Will you tell me why you are so hesitant around me?”

Bernardo’s eyes drop to study their intertwined hands, his eyebrows press together as though he is trying to puzzle out the same thing. 

“It is... difficult. Because it is so simple here, but when we return...” He lifts a hand to rub at his face before letting it drop with a sigh, Mario is pleased their hands remain clasped between them. “I know you are not ignorant of the risks.”

"You are right, of course." He tries to convey nonchalance, although his level of success is arguable given the heaviness that falls over his shoulders. "However the inhabitants of the Vatican value discretion. Whatever goes on quietly in her walls, as long as it is not morally reprehensible, is acceptable."

A silence falls over them, weighed down by all the possible consequences of their potential relationship, Mario is of course especially aware of the repercussions of being openly homosexual in the Vatican. He lost his job over it and a significant amount of respect alongside. Jokes at his expense had not been the norm in many years, no more however, they have returned with vicious glee and Bernardo is clearly not blind to that. He grits his teeth.

There is no fighting the tautness that crawls up his back and into his shoulders, nor how it continues down his arm into his hand. His fingers, still intertwined with Bernardo’s, tighten and despite his desperate attempts to remain relaxed his grip remains firm. It is impossible that Bernardo cannot feel the tremor that has permeated Mario’s body.

The silence stretches and Mario is worried despite their continued contact that he has scared Bernardo off entirely. With a hard swallow, he makes a conscious effort to straighten out his fingers. It is shaky and jarring work.

Work halted with a firm stroke of Bernardo's thumb against his.

With one movement he is startled out of his retreat to save some semblance of dignity in this failed venture. Only it doesn't feel like much of a failure when Bernardo is holding his hand, comforting him, and watching the result of his gentle handling with soft, curious eyes. Mario’s breath catches.

“Well.” Bernardo speaks first this time, slowly and deliberately light as he continues to inspect their hands, "I am also uncertain of your intentions."


	3. Chapter 3

There is an acknowledgement of sorts, in his words and tone, of the tension between them. And under the question of intent, a hidden request to clarify what Mario believes that tension to be.

But Mario has no clear answer to either query. He doesn’t want to say that he had knocked on the door because he was in desperate desire of any form of affection nor that he had had an earth shattering revelation not ten minutes ago that he was quite possibly falling in love.

In fact, any and all intentions he might have had had vanished the moment his name had been spoken, he is at Bernardo’s mercy whether the man knew it or not. 

“I…”

The words catch in his throat and he is left trying to convey his feelings through the cushion of quiet between them.

Mario wants to tell him about the little things he had noticed; how Bernardo stops to appreciate flowers when walking alone in the gardens and how he adjusts the ecclesiastical ring on this finger when he thinks no one is watching, eyes downcast in the full belief he is undeserving of it. The cliched things; that he is lovely and he is kind, that he is funny in the most unexpected moments. Most of all he wants to say that Bernardo Gutierrez is everything the Vatican isn't and everything it aspires to be.

He searches for the words, struggling to find the balance between a truthful confession and nonchalance. The distressed frown on his face likely isn’t presenting Bernardo with any assurances nor the tension once again building in his chest and limbs. Although not usually known for being overtly sentimental, just this once his eyes burn with the telltale signs of frustrated tears. He is acutely aware that this evening has put him through somewhat of an emotional rollercoaster, the next drop of which occurs with a tightening grip around his hand. Mario’s eyes immediately lift to meet Bernardo’s.

Bernardo who must have caught a glance of something in his pained expression because the words that escape him very much do _not_ follow Mario’s projected trajectory for this conversation. “Well, then.” He lifts their joined hands, now more than a little warm. “This is good.” The soft smile that accompanies the words burns itself into Mario’s memory with an unexpected incandescence.

It's easy to act on his impulses, then, knowing that they won't be completely rebuffed.

He turns to face Bernardo fully and raises his unoccupied hand to caress the side of Bernardo’s face, the hand between them pushing into the bed for leverage. It isn’t the most comfortable position for him by far, even with his general flexibility, he has to twist a little to accommodate for his reach despite the length of his arms and one of his knees ends up digging into Bernardo’s thigh. The raspy feeling of the edge of Bernardo’s beard and hint of the outline of his cheekbone is worth the mild discomfort though.

He doesn’t manage to go much farther before he is interrupted with a hand over his. "Can we take it slow?” Bernardo takes a deep breath, with a shuddering breath his eyes flutter closed and he continues, “very slow.”

“Of course.” Mario’s thumb brushes under Bernardo’s eye one last time before his hand retreats even though he would have liked at least one touch to Bernardo’s slightly parted lips, if only to prove to himself just how delicate they must feel despite chapping from the cold. His eyes have no such reservations however and linger there without shame.

He is peripherally aware of Bernardo’s eyes opening again and raises his own to meet them. It is unmistakable where his gaze had been resting and Bernardo himself reveals his own knowledge of that with a lick of his lips that pulls Mario’s attention back down for a split second. His instinct is to lean in, to follow that enticing flash of tongue, but he doesn’t follow through. 

Bernardo had specifically requested some restraint on their parts and Mario was nothing if not determined to follow this man's every request. In that moment, Mario tells himself that this relationship will go nowhere that Bernardo himself does not want to, their pace is set to Bernardo’s footsteps. He does, however, allow himself to be presumptuous as long as it is with Bernardo’s full consent.

He raises their hands again, this time to his mouth, making sure to keep eye contact the entire time; ready to stop at the merest indications of objection or stress. With no reaction forthcoming, he closes his eyes and continues. The one, chaste kiss on the back of Bernardo’s hand and the resulting gasp is near damning in the flare of temptation it brings forth. Using all the willpower available to him, he reigns in his affections briefly to say, “tell me when to stop and I will.” And with that Mario transfers Bernardo’s hand to his other and begins a slow trail of gentle kisses from the centre of his palm towards his wrist.

With a gentle tug, he is able to reach Bernardo’s pulse with his lips where he lingers, turning to press his cheek to it. The room is so quiet and he is so close he can almost hear Bernardo’s racing heartbeat. What he does hear for certain is the hitch in Bernardo’s breathing, quiet though it is, and how it persists with a heaviness that hadn’t been there before.

His eyes open to send another reassuring smile, lips continuing on the path towards the cuff of Bernardo’s shirt which has ridden nearly half way up his forearm. His fingers are lightly hooked into it and when he reaches the edge he is tempted to pull on the fabric and expose more skin to be lavished with his earnest attentions. But although there has been no call to cease, he had promised slow. So with a final kiss pressed into delicate skin with more reverence felt between his eyebrows and behind his eyelids than all the ones previous, he releases a contented sigh and lets their tangled fingers drop into his lap.

All that’s left for Mario this evening is to savour these precious moments, pressed and preserved between the pages of his life. He knows when this evening ends, when he retires to his room and his life continues to play out, he will return to these bookmarked pages; made eternal.

The ardour with which he feelings present themselves give him pause, his romantic nature had long been suffocated by the hands of prayer, and yet it seems only right that they be made known to Bernardo somehow. Bernardo who has opened his door and his heart to Mario with only the slightest reservation.

He cycles back to a previous thought, bringing his other hand to cradle Bernardo’s between both his own, and gingerly says, "I would remain here like this all night, if only you would let me."

It is innocuous enough of a statement yet unmistakable in all the devotion it carries. Mario hopes that he has found the same balance between the two that their evening has been steeped in.

A long silence follows his words. There is no denying the fear that he has made Bernardo uncomfortable again, but he knows Bernardo will be kind with his rejection if it comes to that.

Mario focuses his attention back to their hands, still in his lap even now. This time he is less discreet with his disquiet and, although he would never admit to such an unrefined description of his actions, allows himself to fidget with Bernardo’s hand.

It starts, as it always does, with a flex of his fingers. Bernardo’s hand is crushed briefly under the clench of his fingers and palms both. He is quick to release the pressure the moment the impulse is satisfied, however, and instead busies himself by distractedly scraping his nail along the side of Bernardo’s thumb. The skin is quick to redden under his treatment, and Mario switches to soothing the victim of his anxiety with the pad of his thumb. He would press a kiss to it but he isn’t certain that would be welcome at this time. He begins the process of untangling their hands.

"You will be complaining in the morning if you sit there all night."

His hands freeze.

And there it was; the rejection. Half-expected but disheartening to hear nonetheless.

His mind rushes through his actions, maybe the kisses were too much. Or his choice of words too brazen. There is no telling what he could have possibly done or said wrong, he only knows that he is suffering the consequences now. 

What Mario doesn’t understand is why their hands are still loosely twined, why Bernardo has yet to extricate himself when he is clearly preparing to dismiss Mario from his room. Perhaps he wants Mario to do it himself, to take the initiative and the responsibility. Surely he wasn’t that cruel. 

Mario sits up, trying to gather the strength to pull away. He manages to get as far as stretching out his fingers, disentangling them just enough that he could slide out of Bernardos grip, only to find himself still tethered at the hand. He lifts his eyes to search Bernardo’s, apprehensive of what he might find there.

He finds tenderness. Softened further by the words, "I only meant you would be more comfortable laying down."

“Oh.” Mario blinks. “Here?”

Bernardo’s eyes widen at the question and Mario can see all the doubts flooding in as his grip suddenly loosens and he starts to backtrack. “Only if you want to, of course.” He quickly averts his eyes and continues to mutter, “I had only assumed—” He extricates his hand at last to smooth down his pajamas and then the covers next to him, very much avoiding the side Mario is seated on. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.”

A short laugh escapes from Mario which distracts Bernardo long enough for him to glance up from underneath his eyelashes before his gaze returns to rest on his hands fretting at the hem of his shirt.

“Yes.” Mario laughs again, incredulous and somewhat self-deprecating. Turning to face Bernardo, he continues, “I would love to sleep here.” He licks his dry lips. “With you.”

A blush has risen high on Bernardo’s cheeks and Mario is certain the warmth on his own means he is experiencing much the same. He offers the other man a smile, somewhat self conscious of the gap in his teeth but genuine in all the reassurance and happiness he has to offer.

“Good.” Bernardo returns his smile. “That’s… very good.”


End file.
